This morning, awake at 5:45 a.m., after stoking the wood stove, igniting the gas beneath the tea kettle, pouring a pink glass of grapefruit juice, I turned on the Kindle Fire to check email.
There, sitting so innocently in the in-box, appeared a note from John. He misses me in the Internet world, he says. You and your prose are missed. I sigh from my heart and would have wiped away a stray tear–except it’s still too early. I’m missed.
The part of self that always longs for acknowledgment wants to jump up and down beside a snowbank in delight. Someone misses my writing. Someone loves me. Hallelujah!
The part of self that doesn’t care about acknowledgment raises its eyebrows at the inner child but doesn’t chastise her. I’ve been learning so much in the last five to six years about honoring all parts of the self. Until then, it’s hard to honor all parts of the other person.
But, jeeezsh, John, it’s only been a week since I wrote here at Lake Superior Spirit. That’s not long, is it?
Lately, nothing seems interesting to report here. (Which is odd, because usually everything seems interesting.) Why would anyone want to read about snow, cold, ice, snow, cold, ice, snow, cold, ice?
I could tell you about Friday night Book Club. How’s that? I missed December’s lively Christmas Book Club, so they volunteered yours truly to host February’s evening.
You know the unwritten rule in life? Don’t show up for that meeting and you’ll be elected president. Don’t show up and you’ll be volunteered for who-knows-what.
Always show up.
I didn’t mind. It’s good to host Book Club in winter. When the ladies arrive it’s too dark for them to see all the cobwebs and dust bunnies. (You entertainers might take note of this. Always entertain in the dead of winter after 6 p.m. You needn’t stress in your cleaning.)
Nonetheless, I cleaned half of Thursday and all day Friday until I ached. Scrubbed the bathtub–oh how I hate scrubbing the bathtub. It’s the worst chore ever. No human being should have to scrub tubs. I’m counting on someone to invent the scrub-less bathtub very soon.
By the time the ten readers arrived laden with potluck goodies and wine, I was ready for a glass or six. Nancy brought ice cream cake, and the bathroom scale is still screaming about that.
You know what’s interesting about Book Club, besides the fact it’s more of a social than literary club?
None of us are the same. (Well, of course, you say, rolling your eyes. Some of you learned this in kindergarten.)
But it’s especially true for this group. Our group runs the spectrum from Tea Party to wild liberal. From light mystery reader to Anna Karenina fan. From tree hugger to tree killer (and some of us are both.) From vegan to lover of wild beast. From city-born to U.P. native.
While a few tense moments hath ensued over the years–especially around elections–or book suggestions–we mostly get along pretty darn good. I find that’s so quite often. When we just concentrate on being together, rather than focusing on our beliefs and opinions to the exclusion of our shared friendship, it often doesn’t really matter about our differences.
Sometimes, I’m learning more every day, it’s possible to even learn to love and appreciate differences.
OK, hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go! Will set the publish button for 8:30 a.m. By then I’ll be knee deep in bookkeeping and payroll reports.